For the Sake of the Game

by Laurie R. King

“Why didn’t the EpiPen work? He had two injections.”

  “Was it because it took me so long to find the EpiPen?” Vincent asked. “Or because I was afraid to use it?”

  “It wasn’t you, Vincent. EpiPens don’t always work, even when they’re administered immediately. You did everything right—Lee’s death was just a tragic accident.” She left to continue spreading the word about schedule changes.

  Tilda took a final swallow of beer. “I should get up to my room. I’m moderating another panel in the morning.” She didn’t remember what the topic was, but she’d wing it if necessary.

  “You’re just going to leave it like this?” Vincent said.

  “Leave what like what?”

  “Of course, you’re a reporter, not a detective, but you have done this kind of thing before.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “Solving murders.” Before she could answer, he went on. “Tilda, I know the way I overprepare for a con amuses you, but cons are important to me. Especially these days, when the country is in such a mess. All the fighting.”

  “Like the Food Feud?”

  “That’s a safe argument. We all know— Well, most of us know it’s just a distraction from real life. Family members would never quit talking to me because of the Food Feud, not like they do over politics.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. So I need this oasis, and I need it to be safe, without a murderer running loose.”

  “Regina said the police are satisfied it was an accident.”

  “They didn’t even question us.”

  “Which means they didn’t need to.”

  “Or that somebody covered his or her tracks.” He lowered his voice. “Lee got sick immediately after the toast, which was the first time he’d drunk from his bottle. I videoed the whole panel, so you can watch if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you, but—”

  “And I smelled peanuts when I was on the platform.”

  “I thought I did, too, but it should be easy enough to test. Except—” She stopped.

  “What?”

  “Right before we left the ballroom, I looked to see if anything from Lee’s bag had been shoved under the table. There was nothing.”

  “So?”

  “So where were the water bottles?”

  “Did the EMTs grab them? For testing?”

  “Maybe. I don’t suppose you filmed them working on Lee.”

  “God, no!” He looked resigned. “But I know other people did.”

  “Then our first step is for you to track down those people and look at their footage. Find out what happened to the water bottles.”

  “Does that mean you’re taking the case?”

  She knew she should have said absolutely not, but Michael Lee had been poisoned in front of a whole roomful of people who’d been doing just what Vincent said, taking a respite from the world’s ugliness. She wasn’t a big con goer herself, but she recognized their importance—the appeal wasn’t that different from that of her work. “Let’s just say I’m following the story.”

  “Excellent! We’ll be like Holmes and Watson!”

  “Vincent, you know I don’t play well with others.” That was why she was happier as a freelancer, rather working an actual job, and why she was once again between roommates. “Yes, I’ve done this kind of thing before, but I’ve always worked alone.”

  “But—” He took a breath, turned toward the lobby, and started pointing people out. “See that guy over there? He writes some of the best Elementary fanfic on the web. That woman? She’s a college prof, and teaches the canon in her classroom. Those two teenagers don’t even like Sherlock Holmes, but they come every year to spend time with their grandfather.”

  “And this matters why?”

  “It matters because I’m a Sherlockian, which you said you’re not. I know these people and I know the fandom. You need me.”

  He had a point. Look at how he knew all about Ed. Tilda had been eating at the same restaurant at least once a week for years, and only remembered the serving staff’s names if they were wearing nametags. Maybe she didn’t need Vincent, but having him on board would make things a lot easier. “Okay, we’ll work together. Just remember, I’m Holmes.”

  “Yes!” He started to pump his fist in the air, but Tilda stopped him in mid-pump.

  “Vincent, this is not a game. You have to be careful.”

  “Absolutely.” But he couldn’t keep from grinning.

  Tilda was expecting to help Vincent track down video and photos, but he said he could handle it better on his own. So after getting his promise not to go down shadowy corridors with suspicious characters, she went up to her room. As she got ready for bed, she admitted there might be something to the idea of having a Watson after all.

  As soon as she woke up the next morning, she checked her phone and found a series of texts from Vincent:

  11:45 P.M.: Found proof. The only thing the EMTs took were the used EpiPens for disposal. Didn’t touch water bottles.

  12:45 A.M.: Can’t find photos of anyone taking water bottles.

  1:05 A.M.: Have a lead re: water bottles.

  2:15 A.M.: Giving up for the night.

  There’d been no additional reports, probably because Vincent was still sleeping. So she went to her morning panel, an interview with a YouTuber who’d adopted the persona of Schlock Holmes and dressed in a cheap Inverness cape and deerstalker to film humorous reviews of bad B-movies. Since he’d never made the mistake of mocking a Sherlock Holmes movie, the panel was controversy-free. Just in case, she’d brought sealed bottled water from the gift shop for herself and Schlock.

  After the panel, which was reasonably entertaining considering that Schlock was hungover, she received another text from Vincent.

  10:30 A.M.: May have a witness. Meet me in bar.

  She found him with sodas and nachos already on the table, looking like a kid waiting for Santa Claus, and suspected that despite her warning, he was enjoying their “case” more than he should. “You found a witness?”

  “And it wasn’t easy. First I hunted for pictures and video, and verified that the EMTs did not take the water bottles.”

  “So you said in your text. But you found a witness?”

  “Unfortunately, nobody filmed anything showing where the water bottles went.”

  “So you said in your text,” she repeated. “Did you find a witness?”

  “One picture did show hotel staff members starting to straighten up the room. That would have been while you were returning Lee’s backpack.” He looked embarrassed. “I was talking to people, so I didn’t notice them.”

  “One, you were upset. Two, you’re not Sherlock Holmes so you don’t remember everything you see. Three, neither am I, because I didn’t notice them either. And four: witness or no witness?”

  “Witness. I found footage of one of the people assigned to ballroom cleanup, and I recognized her. She’s coming by with the whole crew. That took some doing.” He started to explain a process that Tilda imagined would include three or four levels of networking, but fortunately they were interrupted by a trio in burgundy hotel uniform shirts: a trim black man, an older Asian woman, and a girl with streaks of purple in her pixie cut hair.

  “Vincent?” the girl said hesitantly.

  “Penny? Your hair looks fabulous! Tilda, this is Ed’s daughter, Penny. I met her at last year’s con. Penny, this is Tilda. Penny, I don’t know your friends.”

  “This is Samuel and Mrs. Dao.”

  “Please, have a seat.” He arranged chairs so they could all sit.

  Tilda was used to thinking of Vincent as kind of a goof, but he was good with people. Maybe they were more like Holmes and Watson than she’d realized.

  “Did Regina speak to you?” he said.

  “Yeah, she said something was left in the ballroom after—” Penny faltered. “After what happened.”

  “I’m sorry,” Vincent said. “I remember from last year that you w
ere a big fan of Michael Lee’s. This must be really upsetting.”

  She looked away. “No, not a fan. I mean I’m sorry about what happened to him, but—”

  “We found nothing in the ballroom,” Mrs. Dao said firmly. “If anything was taken, it was not by us.”

  “That’s right,” Samuel agreed.

  Vincent said, “Of course not! We’re not accusing you guys!”

  He was so upset about upsetting them that Tilda took over. “Did you guys set up the room, too?”

  “Yes,” Penny said nervously.

  “Okay, I was on that panel with Anderson and Lee, and when I got to the ballroom, there were three water bottles on the table. Can you tell us who put them there?”

  “Metal bottles?” Samuel said.

  Tilda nodded.

  “I saw those when I came to check that the mics were hooked up.”

  “They didn’t come from us,” Penny said. “I brought in a pitcher of water and glasses for the head table like usual, but since the bottles were already there, I just made sure they were filled and took the other stuff away.”

  “So none of you know who put the bottles there?”

  All three of them shook their heads.

  “What about afterward?”

  “We came back just before they took that poor guy away,” Samuel said. “Once he was gone, we started straightening the room.”

  “Did you see what happened to the water bottles then?”

  Penny and Samuel shook their heads again, but Mrs. Dao said, “Yes, a man took them.”

  “Who?”

  “One of your people. He came in through the door behind the platform—it’s supposed to be employees only, but I keep seeing guests in there.” She gave Vincent and Tilda a significant look. “He picked up all three bottles, put them in one of the bags they’ve been giving away, and went out the same way he came in.”

  “Did you recognize him?” Tilda asked.

  Mrs. Dao raised an eyebrow. “Sure. It was Sherlock Holmes.”

  Tilda and Vincent stared at each other. At least Vincent was staring—Tilda was pretty sure she was glaring.

  She finally said, “Vincent, how many people are at this con?”

  “I think registration got up to six hundred.”

  “How many of them would you say are dressed as Sherlock Holmes?”

  They looked around the lobby. There were plenty of people who weren’t in costume or were in other Sherlockian costumes ranging from Inspector Lestrade to a Solitary Cyclist, but there were still an awful lot of Sherlocks.

  “Maybe a tenth?”

  “So sixty Sherlocks.”

  “If we lined them up and walked them past Mrs. Dao—”

  “I only saw him for a minute,” Mrs. Dao objected. “I couldn’t pick him out.”

  Of course not, Tilda thought. No, they’d have to investigate all sixty Sherlocks. With a month and a lot of luck, it would be no problem. Unfortunately, they had just over twenty-four hours until the convention ended.

  More Sherlocks came out of the elevator and lined up for the photo backdrops. At least she could cross one off the list—some guy had an impressively realistic skeleton costume under his Inverness cape and deerstalker, and a nametag that said SHERLOCK BONES. Mrs. Dao would have noticed a skeleton. All she had to do was use the process of elimination on the other fifty-nine Sherlocks.

  She considered that thought, taking long enough that the trio of hotel employees was getting restless when she finally spoke.

  “Vincent, remember when I said that murder isn’t a game? I was wrong. Solving this murder is going to be a game.” Tilda knew she was going to hate herself for saying what came next, but she couldn’t resist. “And the game is afoot!”

  Two hours later, she, Vincent, Mrs. Dao, Regina, and as many Irregulars as could be spared were in Security HQ, which is what Regina called the spare function room cluttered with equipment, a mix of full and empty soda bottles, and a lot of pizza boxes.

  “Ms. Dao, these guys have photos of most, if not all, of the people at the con dressed as Sherlock Holmes.” Tilda, Vincent, and the Irregulars had gone through their own files and social media accounts galore. It helped that most of the people who’d used the backdrops in the lobby had used the Baker Street Con hashtag.

  Mrs. Dao looked skeptical, but said “I’ll try, but like I said, I didn’t get a close look at the guy.” The only reason she’d come was the tip Vincent had offered. For once he’d broken his rule and gone for extravagant. “I could flip through pictures all day and still not be sure.”

  “You’re not going to look at the pictures—we are.”

  “Huh?”

  “I used to have a board game called Guess Who?, kind of a kids’ version of Twenty Questions. Players had pictures of suspects, and would use questions to find a criminal through process of elimination. ‘Was it a man?’ If yes, you’d eliminate the women. ‘Does he have facial hair?’ If no, you’d check off the men with beards and mustaches. Eventually you got down to the answer. So I’m going to ask questions, and these guys will go through their pictures and see if we can eliminate some of the Sherlocks.”

  “Okay.” She sounded marginally less skeptical.

  “First question. Was the Sherlock you saw a man or a woman?”

  “Man.”

  “You’re sure?” Tilda had seen several gender-swapped Sherlocks.

  “Either a man or a really unendowed woman, and he moved like a man. Like my daughter says, the person presented as a man.”

  “People, take the obvious women off of your lists.”

  She waited for the Irregulars to go through their files, then went on.

  “You said he was dressed as Sherlock Holmes. So he was wearing a deerstalker and Inverness cape, right?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A double-billed cap, and a half-cape, half-coat thing. The stereotypical Sherlock Holmes costume.”

  “Of course. I told you it was Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Good. That eliminates the Elementary and Sherlock cosplayers.”

  “The flashback episode of Sherlock had Holmes and Watson wearing Victorian dress,” a pedantic Irregular said.

  “Fine. Then it eliminates all the Elementary Sherlocks and most of the Sherlock Sherlocks,” Tilda conceded. They also eliminated three steampunk Sherlocks, an anime Sherlock, and various cross-cosplays including a bedazzled Liberace-Sherlock getup.

  Once they’d finished weeding through their files, Tilda asked, “Was he Caucasian?”

  “He could have been Hispanic, but on the lighter side.”

  “People, eliminate some more.”

  “What about the guy who was dressed as Data from Star Trek: TNG dressed as Sherlock Holmes?” the pedantic Irregular wanted to know.

  “Did he have unnaturally white skin or yellow eyes?” Tilda asked Mrs. Dao.

  “I didn’t see his eyes, but the skin looked normal.”

  “Cross off the android.”

  There were a few more questions about lighter colored variants including a pale-pelted furry Sherlock, Vampire Sherlock, and a Sherlock with a white beard from Sherlock Gnomes.

  Next Tilda was able to pare down the list by body size and shape. Unfortunately, Mrs. Dao couldn’t answer any questions about hair, eyes, or other distinguishing marks, so they let her go about her business.

  The Irregulars emailed their remaining candidates to Tilda, and she and Vincent eliminated the duplications—people who’d had pictures taken by more than one Irregular. Once all that was done, there were half a dozen choices left.

  “What next?” Vincent asked.

  “Now we track down the six Sherlocks.”

  Even with only six, it wasn’t going to be easy. None of the people in the photos were identified and nobody recognized them. So the Irregulars were tasked with keeping an eye out for them, and Vincent went to find a central vantage point from which to watch. In other words, the bar. Meanwhile, Tilda had a final panel to moderate on a
subject she barely remembered two minutes later because she was so busy scanning the audience, looking for any of the targets. She was unsuccessful, but a text from Vincent proved that hanging at the bar had more benefits than excellent service.

  She rushed over, but wasn’t expecting to find the suspect sharing nachos with Vincent, nor was she expecting him to be wearing a black frock coat, wide-brimmed hat, and wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Tilda!” Vincent said. “Meet Oscar. I was telling him how much I admired his costume.”

  “It’s certainly different.” Then she remembered seeing something like that getup before. “‘A Scandal in Bohemia’?”

  “Good catch,” Oscar said. “It’s Sherlock’s Nonconformist clergyman disguise.”

  “Oscar has ten different costumes for this weekend,” Vincent said.

  “Ten?”

  “That’s right,” Oscar said proudly. “Yesterday, I started out with the classic, but there were so many Inverness capes wandering around that after I got some pictures, I switched to the Jeremy Brett version. Today I’m running through Sherlock’s disguises. I started with the doddering opium smoker, then the French laborer. Next up, I’ve got the book collector, the Italian priest, and I’ll wrap it up with the drunken groom. Tomorrow—”

  “Wow. You are devoted.” Trying for subtlety, Tilda said, “I think I saw you at the panel with Lee and Anderson.”

  “Yeah, I was in the back so my top hat wouldn’t block anybody’s view. Then when . . . you know . . . happened, I was glad to be so far away that I couldn’t see much. It must have been awful for you.”

  “Yes.” Tilda didn’t elaborate.

  Vincent tactfully switched the conversation to the nuts and bolts of packing so many costumes and the accompanying accessories. Tilda was only moderately interested, but took a few notes. It might make for a salable story, given the popularity of cosplay. Fortunately for her attention span, Oscar was on a tight schedule and soon took off to change.

  “What do you think?” Vincent said.

  “He could have lied about what he was wearing,” Tilda said. “Do we have photos of the back of the ballroom?”

  Vincent did, and they quickly spotted Oscar and his hat.

  “That’s one Sherlock down,” Tilda said.